


A Moonlight Tryst ♡

by froggyyong



Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Creampie, Dirty Talk, Dom Mark Lee (NCT), Dom/sub, F/M, Kitchen Sex, PWP, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Romance, Smut, Teasing, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, unprotected sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-25
Updated: 2019-05-25
Packaged: 2020-03-17 11:50:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18964657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/froggyyong/pseuds/froggyyong
Summary: ; In which all you want is for Mark to pay a little attention to you.





	A Moonlight Tryst ♡

Warmth; tepid, lukewarm, bordering on a heated glow - surrounds you in puffy white clouds. Mark’s sheets are clean and crisp, and they make a soft scratching sound, pleasing to your ears when you rustle around to search for the heat of his body amongst the rubble of messed bedding. You frown, lips pouting gloss in the cool darkness when your eyes adjust and you find the space beside you unsatisfyingly empty.

The soles of your feet thrum as your blood rushes to circulate, mouth parched and the pads of your fingertips dry. You find enough strength in your legs to bring yourself to the bathroom, the feverish rendezvous which had occurred earlier in the night - the culprit behind the sore tension deep within the muscles of your thighs. You walk over to open the door to the bedroom, warm, rutilent hues being cast along the floorboards in the hall as you leisurely pad along to reach the living room. In search of the boy who marked you, incessant - with his possessive coloured kisses.

You find him almost immediately, your lungs aching, eyes bleary and lips parting as you take him in. Silver circle-rimmed glasses pushed up the high bridge of his nose, thumb pressed to his temple as he cradles his own head of chestnut hair in his grasp. Gaze angled down toward the mess of papers, he doesn’t even lift his head, nor his eyes to acknowledge your presence, and it makes you burn.

You want him to look up at you with a loving smile as if he’s in a cliché romance film, gaze lingering for a moment too long on your bare thighs. Perhaps he’d compliment the way you look dressed only in his shirt and scoop you up into his arms, make love to you more times than you can count until the sun rises from it’s hazed slumber. But alas; he sits motionless, eyes darting back and forth between papers, paragraphs, the ringing in his ears interrupting his own focus.

You breathe slowly as you walk over to where he’s sat at the end of the dining table, pausing once you’re in front of him, just patiently waiting for him to look up or something. “Mm?” Is all he offers, in a minuscule and absent-minded hum. Your breath stutters over your words as he curiously lifts his head to find you, brow lifted expectantly, eyes dark and glittering under the dimmed light above. “I…” You let the words float out from your mouth, only for them to fall and hit the floor when he sighs out softly, sweetly and you suddenly lose your train of thought.

He doesn’t miss the twinkle in your own gaze, shyness burnt across your figure, knees turned inward as you hug your own arm. It almost makes him proud that you don’t hide such obvious signs from him, but he loves to play. Loves to have you unsuspecting, to watch you fumble over your words when you’re needy. Loves to watch you squirm as you stutter your desires to him in shameful whispers that have you vulnerable and pliant. He loves every little thing about you, especially the way you’ve currently fallen silent as he stretches his arms above his head.

You’re quick to collect yourself when Mark’s gaze returns to his papers, seemingly run out of patience with your lack of conversation. You pick your jaw up off of the floor and walk through to the kitchen nearby in solemn steps, the tinkering clinks of the thin glass cup in your grasp filling the empty silence of the atmosphere, water burbling and rippling as you fill it halfway.

Shadows play in yellowed whispers along the wall you’re facing, and you falsely start to fool yourself into believing you should just try to return to your unfulfilling slumber, instead of waiting around for Mark to pay attention to you.

Cheeks warm and body gently thrumming, you spill the remainder of the chilled water down the sink, missing the footsteps that have crept up to your figure amidst your night-dreaming. You inhale his scent before anything else; sweat-dipped hair amongst muted arousal, musk and masculinity, mint toothpaste.

“Kitten,” he breathes, the warmth on his words hitting your nape, sending a wave of chills to roll over your near-nude form, fingers grasping the edge of the rose marbled counter-top in anticipation. “You’re terrible at hiding,” he mutters as he takes a step forward, his warmth swiftly pressed to your back and you sigh, gaze shifting downward to where his hand is slowly sliding around your waist below his own shirt, fingers curled over your hip bone, thumb stroking gently. “If I put my hand down your pants right now.. How wet will you be?” He muses gently, almost teasingly, the grip over your hip tightening, breath hitching as you feel him brush your hair out of the way. Quietly admiring the work of his busy lips, he smirks to himself when he feels your pulse jump beneath the skin where his lips are pressed.

“Hm?” He hums, leisurely nosing along your hairline until his lips are at your ear. Breathing soft sighs against your skin, he takes your lobe between his teeth as his hand deftly dips beneath the waistband of your panties; soiled cotton that cages his warm skin against your heat.

You’re deeply embarrassed by the whine you let out as his fingers graze over your clit, swollen, throbbing, engorged, neglected. You had been like this since you woke. You were aware of your own arousal painting your thighs as you walked, trickling down sweetly and slippery as you tried to distract yourself by thinking of something, anything else. By the gasp he lets out, he’s pleasantly surprised and suddenly blank on why he had kept you waiting at all.

“Poor kitten,” he coos, breathy, sweet, your hips twitching as he slowly, lazily rubs his fingers in slippery circles. “You’re still this needy? Hm?” He teases, and you feel your face burn hot, ashamed by how desperate you’ve managed to become. “Please, just.. Please,” you repeat, strangled, constricted amidst your distress. Heart beating loud in your ears, vibrating your bones in a slow buzz that has your toes curling against the vinyl of the floorboards.

“Look at you,” he mutters, hushed. His touch fleeting from your heat in favour of travelling up your belly, a sharp intake of breath when he roughly grasps the flesh of your breast with glistening fingers. A heedy, desperate plea falling from your lips in garbled nonsense as he presses his hips into you. The thickness of his swelling cock, firm against the ample flesh of your behind.

“Tell me,” he starts, a shaky breath falling from his lips as your hips press back against his own, testing, teasing, begging. “How much you need me, kitten,” he asks. Your lips parting in a quiet moan as he slowly grinds his hips, repetitive and patient. “Mark, mmph- fuck,” you swallow, “Please,” you pant, high and breathless as you feel his fingers quickly peel your underwear down your thighs, bunched up around your unsteady knees.

When he sinks into you, it’s slow, so slow and you’re so slick with arousal you can hear the way you suck him in. A deep curse of; “Fuck,” falling from his lips in praise. He tries to wait, tries his best to be good, pausing for you to adjust. Stroking his thumb over the skin of your belly as he waits for you to accept his girth. But then you’re wriggling your hips, whining, panting, trying to fuck yourself back onto him with needy pushes of your hips. His teeth dig into the flesh of his lower lip as he gives a harsh thrust, the desperate cry you let out enough to make him lose his what little remainder of self control he holds.

You’re already struggling to keep control of your breathing, panting and keening, moaning out when he palms your breast once more. Weighing the buxom flesh in his grasp as he bounces you under the weight of his cock, sharp thrusts that have you struggling to keep your eyes open, succumbing to the pleasure that courses through your veins. Mouth watering at the feel of his hipbones digging into the flesh of your behind, slow trails of your own slick crawling down the soft skin of your inner thighs.

“Listen to you,” he manages through bated breath, “So greedy,” he pants, wetting his lips with his tongue as he praises you in more low curses. “You’d have me like this-” he pauses, punctuating his words with a thrust that has your mouth falling open, “All day long, if you could.” You hum in undeniable agreement, nodding adamantly, hands resting atop the grip his has around your hips, as if to keep him from ever leaving.

The burning stretch of his cock makes your knees buckle, so good, so hot, so thick, and he has to anchor you to the counter to keep you from losing your footing as he repeats each dip and curve of his hips. Hands, slippery against the marble as you hold yourself up, fingers curling, aiming to grip onto something as you feel your slick gush around him uncontrollably.

You’re so close, it feels so good, scolding blood roaring in your ears, close enough to taste it, your flesh pulsing around his. You faintly hear him mumble, something about the slick sounds filling the room each time he withdraws his hips, as you bite on your lip, holding your breath. “Cum for me, kitten,” he pants, all previous possessive tone melted down amidst desperation. “Need you to cum around me,” he groans, deep. “Mm- wanna feel it,” he mumbles, rasped.

“Fuck baby,” he swears, a strangled moan leaving his throat. “Say my name, will you?” He asks breathlessly, desperate. The dark teasing had built up your pleasure, but it’s the soft term of endearment that pushes you to finally cum. Such an easy request to fulfil too, his name being the only thing you can think of as the flesh between your thighs pulses hotly. “Oh, Mark,” you call sweetly, moaning softly, sated as you feel him cum in hot pulses. Trails of his own essence joining yours to paint and press along your inner thighs, more markings of which you come to cherish.

You succeed in part of your romantic cliché - Mark scooping you up and bringing you back to your shared mess of a bed. Sweat is damp along your nape and the roots of your hair, kisses sticky along your neck, mouth, cheeks, lips. But you’re still trying to fight off sleep as you relish in the feeling of being tugged against his chest, warm and soft. And you’d never let anything get in the way of what you want.


End file.
